"I cannot play such a trick on that poor abbé Chas-Bernard, as to
summon him," he said to Fouqué: "it would prevent him from dining for
three whole days.--But try and find some Jansenist who is a friend of
M. Pirard."
Fouqué was impatiently waiting for this suggestion. Julien acquitted
himself becomingly of all the duty a man owes to provincial opinion.
Thanks to M. the abbé de Frilair, and in spite of his bad choice of a
confessor, Julien enjoyed in his cell the protection of the priestly
congregation; with a little more diplomacy he might have managed to
escape. But the bad air of the cell produced its effect, and his
strength of mind diminished. But this only intensified his happiness at
madame de Rênal's return.
"My first duty is towards you, my dear," she said as she embraced him;
"I have run away from Verrières."
Julien felt no petty vanity in his relations with her, and told her all
his weaknesses. She was good and charming to him.
In the evening she had scarcely left the prison before she made the
priest, who had clung on to Julien like a veritable prey, go to her
aunt's: as his only object was to win prestige among the young women
who belonged to good Besançon society, madame de Rênal easily prevailed
upon him to go and perform a novena at the abbey of Bray-le-Haut.
No words can do justice to the madness and extravagance of Julien's
love.
By means of gold, and by using and abusing the influence of her aunt,
who was devout, rich and well-known, madame de Rênal managed to see him
twice a day.
At this news, Mathilde's jealousy reached a pitch of positive madness.
M. de Frilair had confessed to her that all his influence did not go
so far as to admit of flouting the conventions by allowing her to
see her sweetheart more than once every day. Mathilde had madame de
Rênal followed so as to know the smallest thing she did. M. de Frilair
exhausted all the resources of an extremely clever intellect in order
to prove to her that Julien was unworthy of her.
Plunged though she was in all these torments, she only loved him the
more, and made a horrible scene nearly every day.
Julien wished, with all his might, to behave to the very end like an
honourable man towards this poor young girl whom he had so strangely
compromised, but the reckless love which he felt for madame de Rênal
swept him away at every single minute. When he could not manage to
persuade Mathilde of the innocence of her rival's visits by all his
thin excuses, he would say to himself: "at any rate the end of the
drama ought to be quite near. The very fact of not being able to lie
better will be an excuse for me."
Mademoiselle de La Mole learnt of the death of the marquis de
Croisenois. The rich M. de Thaler had indulged in some unpleasant
remarks concerning Mathilde's disappearance: M. de Croisenois went
and asked him to recant them: M. de Thaler showed him some anonymous
letters which had been sent to him, and which were full of details so
artfully put together that the poor marquis could not help catching a
glimpse of the truth.
M. de Thaler indulged in some jests which were devoid of all taste.
Maddened by anger and unhappiness, M. de Croisenois demanded such
unqualified satisfaction, that the millionaire preferred to fight a
duel. Stupidity triumphed, and one of the most lovable of men met with
his death before he was twenty-four.
This death produced a strange and morbid impression on Julien's
demoralised soul.
"Poor Croisenois," he said to Mathilde, "really behaved very reasonably
and very honourably towards us; he had ample ground for hating me and
picking a quarrel with me, by reason of your indiscretion in your
mother's salon; for the hatred which follows on contempt is usually
frenzied."
M. de Croisenois' death changed all Julien's ideas concerning
Mathilde's future. He spent several days in proving to her that she
ought to accept the hand of M. de Luz. "He is a nervous man, not too
much of a Jesuit, and will doubtless be a candidate," he said to her.
"He has a more sinister and persevering ambition than poor Croisenois,
and as there has never been a dukedom in his family, he will be only
too glad to marry Julien Sorel's widow."
"A widow, though, who scorns the grand passions," answered Mathilde
coldly, "for she has lived long enough to see her lover prefer to
her after six months another woman who was the origin of all their
unhappiness."
"You are unjust! Madame de Rênal's visits will furnish my advocate
at Paris, who is endeavouring to procure my pardon, with the subject
matter for some sensational phrases; he will depict the murderer
honoured by the attention of his victim. That may produce an
impression, and perhaps some day or other, you will see me provide the
plot of some melodrama or other, etc., etc."
A furious and impotent jealousy, a prolonged and hopeless unhappiness
(for even supposing Julien was saved, how was she to win back his
heart?), coupled with her shame and anguish at loving this unfaithful
lover more than ever had plunged mademoiselle de la Mole into a gloomy
silence, from which all the careful assiduity of M. de Frilair was as
little able to draw her as the rugged frankness of Fouqué.
As for Julien, except in those moments which were taken up by
Mathilde's presence, he lived on love with scarcely a thought for the
future.
"In former days," Julien said to her, "when I might have been so happy,
during our walks in the wood of Vergy, a frenzied ambition swept my
soul into the realms of imagination. Instead of pressing to my heart
that charming arm which is so near my lips, the thoughts of my future
took me away from you; I was engaged in countless combats which I
should have to sustain in order to lay the foundations of a colossal
fortune. No, I should have died without knowing what happiness was if
you had not come to see me in this prison."
Two episodes ruffled this tranquil life. Julien's confessor, Jansenist
though he was, was not proof against an intrigue of the Jesuits, and
became their tool without knowing it.
He came to tell him one day that unless he meant to fall into the awful
sin of suicide, he ought to take every possible step to procure his
pardon. Consequently, as the clergy have a great deal of influence with
the minister of Justice at Paris, an easy means presented itself; he
ought to become converted with all publicity.
"With publicity," repeated Julien. "Ha, Ha! I have caught you at it--I
have caught you as well, my father, playing a part like any missionary."
"Your youth," replied the Jansenist gravely, "the interesting
appearance which Providence has given you, the still unsolved mystery
of the motive for your crime, the heroic steps which mademoiselle de
la Mole has so freely taken on your behalf, everything, up to the
surprising affection which your victim manifests towards you, has
contributed to make you the hero of the young women of Besançon.
They have forgotten everything, even politics, on your account. Your
conversion will reverberate in their hearts and will leave behind it a
deep impression. You can be of considerable use to religion, and I was
about to hesitate for the trivial reason that in a similar circumstance
the Jesuits would follow a similar course. But if I did, even in the
one case which has escaped their greedy clutches they would still be
exercising their mischief. The tears which your conversation will
cause to be shed will annul the poisonous effect of ten editions of
Voltaire's works."
"And what will be left for me," answered Julien, coldly, "if I despise
myself? I have been ambitious; I do not mean to blame myself in any
way. Further, I have acted in accordance with the code of the age. Now
I am living from day to day. But I should make myself very unhappy
if I were to yield to what the locality would regard as a piece of
cowardice...."
Madame de Rênal was responsible for the other episode which affected
Julien in quite another way. Some intriguing woman friend or other had
managed to persuade this naïve and timid soul that it was her duty
to leave for St. Cloud, and go and throw herself at the feet of King
Charles X.
She had made the sacrifice of separating from Julien, and after
a strain as great as that, she no longer thought anything of the
unpleasantness of making an exhibition of herself, though in former
times she would have thought that worse than death.
"I will go to the king. I will confess freely that you are my lover.
The life of a man, and of a man like Julien, too, ought to prevail over
every consideration. I will tell him that it was because of jealousy
that you made an attempt upon my life. There are numerous instances of
poor young people who have been saved in such a case by the clemency of
the jury or of the king."
"I will leave off seeing you; I will shut myself up in my prison,"
exclaimed Julien, "and you can be quite certain that if you do not
promise me to take no step which will make a public exhibition of us
both, I will kill myself in despair the day afterwards. This idea of
going to Paris is not your own. Tell me the name of the intriguing
woman who suggested it to you.
"Let us be happy during the small number of days of this short life.
Let us hide our existence; my crime was only too self-evident.
Mademoiselle de la Mole enjoys all possible influence at Paris. Take
it from me that she has done all that is humanly possible. Here in
the provinces I have all the men of wealth and prestige against me.
Your conduct will still further aggravate those rich and essentially
moderate people to whom life comes so easy.... Let us not give the
Maslons, the Valenods, and the thousand other people who are worth more
than they, anything to laugh about."
Julien came to find the bad air of the cell unbearable. Fortunately,
nature was rejoicing in a fine sunshine on the day when they announced
to him that he would have to die, and he was in a courageous vein.
He found walking in the open air as delicious a sensation as the
navigator, who has been at sea for a long time, finds walking on the
ground. "Come on, everything is going all right," he said to himself.
"I am not lacking in courage."
His head had never looked so poetical as at that moment when it was on
the point of falling. The sweet minutes which he had formerly spent in
the woods of Vergy crowded back upon his mind with extreme force.
Everything went off simply, decorously, and without any affectation on
his part.
Two days before he had said to Fouqué: "I cannot guarantee not to
show some emotion. This dense, squalid cell gives me fits of fever in
which I do not recognise myself, but fear?--no! I shall not be seen to
flinch."
He had made his arrangements in advance for Fouqué to take Mathilde and
madame de Rênal away on the morning of his last day.
"Drive them away in the same carriage," he had said. "Do you see that
the post-horses do not leave off galloping. They will either fall into
each other's arms, or manifest towards each other a mortal hatred.
In either case the poor women will have something to distract them a
little from their awful grief."
Julien had made madame de Rênal swear that she would live to look after
Mathilde's son.
"Who knows? Perhaps we have still some sensations after our death," he
had said one day to Fouqué. "I should like to rest, for rest is the
right word, in that little grotto in the great mountain which dominates
Verrières. Many a time, as I have told you, I have spent the night
alone in that grotto, and as my gaze would plunge far and wide over the
richest provinces of France, ambition would inflame my heart. In those
days it was my passion.... Anyway, I hold that grotto dear, and one
cannot dispute that its situation might well arouse the desires of the
philosopher's soul.... Well, you know! those good priests of Besançon
will make money out of everything. If you know how to manage it, they
will sell you my mortal remains."
Fouqué succeeded in this melancholy business. He was passing the night
alone in his room by his friend's body when, to his great surprise, he
saw Mathilde come in. A few hours before he had left her ten leagues
from Besançon. Her face and eyes looked distraught.
"I want to see him," she said.
Fouqué had not the courage either to speak or get up. He pointed with
his finger to a big blue cloak on the floor; there was wrapped in it
all that remained of Julien.
She threw herself on her knees. The memory of Boniface de la Mole, and
of Marguerite of Navarre gave her, no doubt, a superhuman courage. Her
trembling hands undid the cloak. Fouqué turned away his eyes.
He heard Mathilde walking feverishly about the room. She lit several
candles. When Fouqué could bring himself to look at her, she had placed
Julien's head on a little marble table in front of her, and was kissing
it on the forehead.
Mathilde followed her lover to the tomb which he had chosen. A great
number of priests convoyed the bier, and, alone in her draped carriage,
without anyone knowing it, she carried on her knees the head of the man
whom she had loved so much.
When they arrived in this way at the most elevated peak of the high
mountains of the Jura, twenty priests celebrated the service of the
dead in the middle of the night in this little grotto, which was
magnificently illuminated by a countless number of wax candles.
Attracted by this strange and singular ceremony, all the inhabitants
of the little mountain villages which the funeral had passed through,
followed it.
Mathilde appeared in their midst in long mourning garments, and had
several thousands of five-franc pieces thrown to them at the end of the
service.
When she was left alone with Fouqué, she insisted on burying her
lover's head with her own hands. Fouqué nearly went mad with grief.
Mathilde took care that this wild grotto should be decorated with
marble monuments that had been sculpted in Italy at great expense.
Madame de Rênal kept her promise. She did not try to make any attempt
upon her life; but she died embracing her children, three days after
Julien.
THE END.
The inconvenience of the reign of public opinion is that though, of
course, it secures liberty, it meddles with what it has nothing to do
with--private life, for example. Hence the gloominess of America and
England. In order to avoid infringing on private life, the author has
invented a little town--Verrières, and when he had need of a bishop,
a jury, an assize court, he placed all this in Besançon, where he has
never been.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I A SMALL TOWN
CHAPTER II A MAYOR
CHAPTER III THE POOR FUND
CHAPTER IV A FATHER AND A SON
CHAPTER V A NEGOTIATION
CHAPTER VI ENNUI
CHAPTER VII THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES
CHAPTER VIII LITTLE EPISODES
CHAPTER IX AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER X A GREAT HEART AND A SMALL FORTUNE
CHAPTER XI AN EVENING
CHAPTER XII A JOURNEY
CHAPTER XIII THE OPEN WORK STOCKINGS
CHAPTER XIV THE ENGLISH SCISSORS
CHAPTER XV THE COCK'S SONG
CHAPTER XVI THE DAY AFTER
CHAPTER XVII THE FIRST DEPUTY
CHAPTER XVIII A KING AT VERRIÈRES
CHAPTER XIX THINKING PRODUCES SUFFERING
CHAPTER XX ANONYMOUS LETTERS
CHAPTER XXI DIALOGUE WITH A MASTER
CHAPTER XXII MANNERS OF PROCEDURE IN 1830
CHAPTER XXIII SORROWS OF AN OFFICIAL
CHAPTER XXIV A CAPITAL
CHAPTER XXV THE SEMINARY
CHAPTER XXVI THE WORLD, OR WHAT THE RICH LACK
CHAPTER XXVII FIRST EXPERIENCE OF LIFE
CHAPTER XXVIII A PROCESSION
CHAPTER XXIX THE FIRST PROMOTION
CHAPTER XXX AN AMBITIOUS MAN
CHAPTER XXXI THE PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER XXXII ENTRY INTO SOCIETY
CHAPTER XXXIII THE FIRST STEPS
CHAPTER XXXIV THE HÔTEL DE LA MOLE
CHAPTER XXXV SENSIBILITY AND A GREAT PIOUS LADY
CHAPTER XXXVI PRONUNCIATION
CHAPTER XXXVII AN ATTACK OF GOUT
CHAPTER XXXVIII WHAT IS THE DECORATION WHICH CONFERS DISTINCTION?
CHAPTER XXXIX HE BALL
CHAPTER XL QUEEN MARGUERITE
CHAPTER XLI A YOUNG GIRL'S DOMINION
CHAPTER XLII IS HE A DANTON?
CHAPTER XLIII A PLOT
CHAPTER XLIV A YOUNG GIRL'S THOUGHTS
CHAPTER XLV IS IT A PLOT?
CHAPTER XLVI ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING
CHAPTER XLVII AN OLD SWORD
CHAPTER XLVIII CRUEL MOMENTS
CHAPTER XLIX THE OPERA BOUFFE
CHAPTER L THE JAPANESE VASE
CHAPTER LI THE SECRET NOTE
CHAPTER LII THE DISCUSSION
CHAPTER LIII THE CLERGY, THE FORESTS, LIBERTY
CHAPTER LIV STRASBOURG
CHAPTER LV THE MINISTRY OF VIRTUE
CHAPTER LVI MORAL LOVE
CHAPTER LVII THE FINEST PLACES IN THE CHURCH
CHAPTER LVIII MANON LESCAUT
CHAPTER LIX ENNUI
CHAPTER LX A BOX AT THE BOUFFES
CHAPTER LXI FRIGHTEN HER
CHAPTER LXII THE TIGER
CHAPTER LXIII THE HELL OF WEAKNESS
CHAPTER LXIV A MAN OF INTELLECT
CHAPTER LXV A STORM
CHAPTER LXVI SAD DETAILS
CHAPTER LXVII A TURRET
CHAPTER LXVIII A POWERFUL MAN
CHAPTER LXIX THE INTRIGUE
CHAPTER LXX TRANQUILITY
CHAPTER LXXI THE TRIAL
CHAPTER LXXII
CHAPTER LXXIII
CHAPTER LXXIV
CHAPTER LXXV